


oh shit??? what big teeth you have

by joonkorre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Harry Potter, Betrayal, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Draco Malfoy as Little Red Riding Hood, Harry Potter as the Big Bad Wolf, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Or Is he?, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Pre-Relationship, Spy Draco Malfoy, Werewolf Harry Potter, as in thinks the other person hates them, bc i simply do not know how to write confessions, drarrymicrofic, dude wtf lmao, expressing affection through being in near death situation, i wanted to include luna but i genuinely didn't know where to put her i'm so sorry queen, idk just read lmao, like really awkward, little red riding hood theme, makes his crush think he hates him, so they act as mean as possible toward each other, stupid weirdos lol, vague mentions of Draco & Hermione friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonkorre/pseuds/joonkorre
Summary: my contribution to@drarrymicroficon tumblr. prompt: lunarDraco and Harry take a leisurely stroll together in the woods. Now add the Forbidden Forest, a war backdrop, Dark creatures, the ‘leisurely’ part is a lie, and you get this joker right here.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: DrarryLove





	oh shit??? what big teeth you have

**Author's Note:**

> (tw // canon-typical violence, animal attack, blood. but i don't think it's graphic enough to warrant archive warnings. tell me if i'm wrong and i'll edit it)
> 
> I was supposed to finish this last week but Texas got fucked up by the snow lmaooooo but whatever I'll upload this anyway

The wind rifles through Draco’s hair, under his cloak, over his leather satchel. The temperature hasn’t changed much, but he shivers, goosebumps pimpling his arms. Winter has passed, he recalls, which means this is the works of Dementors.

Rumors of the Dark- no, _Voldemort,_ Draco chides himself - planning another major attack haunts everyone’s waking moment. And it’s getting painfully close to the truth, too, what with the increased presence of Dementors and other Dark creatures alike. One can never be too careful traversing anywhere with a partner. Which is why, Draco glances over his shoulder, he shouldn’t be annoyed about getting Potter assigned to him.

He has to confess, the once awkward, malnourished teen has grown into quite a formidable young man. War has a way of aging its victims, especially ones spanning half a decade long, and Chosen One or not, Potter has no choice but to succumb to its grasp. Lankiness turns to muscles, moodiness turns to stoicism, obedience turns to perceptiveness, and bullheadedness-

“I mean, you can take care of yourself just fine. I should be back in Grimmauld’s doing other shite, not babysitting you,” Potter says.

\- shouldn’t turn to an absolute disregard for authority and proper procedure, what the actual fuck.

“Where are we?” Draco grits through his teeth.

“The Forbidden Forest?”

“And why do you think it has that name?”

“Jesus-fuck, we’re not having this conversation again,” it’s the fifth time they’re having this conversation again, all initiated by Potter. “Look, you were a spy and what-not before openly defecting. Aren’t you good at, I don’t know, sneaking around? You go through here every other week.”

“Because, Potter, and this is the last time I will explain this to you,” Draco says, tries to count backward from ten in his head, “I do go through here every other week, which is why I’d hate to break that routine by bleeding to death in a shrub. It’s safer to go literally anywhere at all in pairs. You _literally_ voted for this during the biweekly Order meeting.”

He whirls around and is instantly gratified with the way Potter stiffens up. “So. You’re stuck with me, we’re stuck with each other,” he jabs a finger at Potter’s chest, “now be the adult you are and deal with it.”

One good thing about growing up too quickly is that Potter is mature enough not to argue back. He only narrows his eyes at Draco and makes him uncomfortably aware of the fact that if he steps a centimeter closer, he can feel Potter’s body heat.

“Any other question?” Draco asks, digging his finger more aggressively just because.

Potter knocks Draco’s finger away and charges ahead. To the east. Draco reckons Potter’s attitude doesn’t improve much when he has to stop him with a hand on his shoulder and steer him to the west.

“Might I remind you who here has any actual idea of where Gramma’s Cabin is?” Draco checks his pocket watch. Two hours until sundown.

Potter looks annoyed but doesn’t bat Draco’s hands off until they’re on the right path.

“Okay, but why are we even going there? Didn’t you and the other Potioneers stock up on all the necessary potions?”

Another moronic question, but slightly more intuitive. Draco suppresses his urge to slow-clap.

“Your lack of critical thinking for a grown man astounds me, truly. Gramma’s Cabin? Grammedion? Ringing any bells?” Potter starts to shake his head but stops. Recognition dawns on his face. “There we go. It’d be horrific if you forget the spy who has saved our arses time and time again. Yes, we’re on our way to his safe house, Gramma’s Cabin we call it, for information. And precisely, my team and I stocked up on all the necessary potions, except Wolfsbane.”

Potter nods in understanding. Remus’s new recruiting tactics have yielded tremendous success, and numerous werewolves, newly Turned by Fenrir and his followers and heavy with bitterness, seek out the Order for protection. Draco and his team did brew enough Wolfsbane to last this Full Moon, but ingredients are scarce and if they want to prepare for the next few months, Gramma’s Cabin holds the answer.

They actually don’t take anything from Grammedion’s safe house if they can help it. The ingredients and potions stored there are expensive to replace, thus they are used exclusively for dire situations, like the new batch of weres. Plus, Voldemort has tightened security these days. Frequent trips to Draco's fellow spy’s cabin are the only way to access Death Eater information anymore without the riskiness of owling and Flooing, or the hassle of one-way Protean charms.

The pair fall silent and keep walking. Fabric rustles and For some inane reason, Draco’s chest squeezes all the more with each step. Chewing on his bottom lip, he glances back at Potter once again. The man looks miserable, biting back his expletives at every sting the spinaberry leaves around them dart out and slice into his skin, which Draco has anticipated and worn a cape for.

He looks back to the front. It’s not his fault Potter lets petty irritation ruin his oversight and refuses to listen to Draco half the time. It’s not his fault Potter has treated him like this despite everything. Draco’s proven his loyalty by poisoning his own Father - a feat that repays him in nightmarish recollections of him clinging to Draco with flayed hands, calling the cause of his demise “son” - before he could do too much damage as Voldemort’s right-hand man. He’s been developing most of the Order’s potion stock. He’s apologized to Hermione by improving her plans and dragging her to bed when she’s worried sick over her significant bother being stuck in the Malfoy dungeons, and Weasley R. by getting him out of said dungeons. He knows his own worth, thus he shall not let Potter’s one-sided grudge affect his professionalism.

It’s not his business Potter hasn’t been in the Forbidden Forest enough to know what plants, what creatures to look out for besides centaurs and weeds. It’s not his business. It’s not his concern. It’s not-

But.

Draco sighs. 

“Conjure a knife.”

“What?” Potter says.

“Did you not hear me? Conjure a knife,” Draco frowns. He doesn’t mean to sound vexed. Looking at the ground, he grabs two rocks and tosses them at Potter, who catches them with (enviable) Seeker reflexes, “and a basket, too. You don’t need to do much. Touch the spinaberry leaves with any sharp object and they will simply fall off. Collect them, I need more for the Bloodclot antidote.”

He doesn’t, but what Potter doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Potter does what he says in stony silence, and the leaves to his right fall off in seconds. Draco smirks when Potter’s brows lift in surprise.

“What about you? Shouldn’t you be collecting these also?”

“Why should I when I have you to do it for me?” Draco says, no longer worried about his tone after he’s been nice to Potter. “Besides, I’m occupied with leading us to our destination. Quite an important job, that.”

Potter swings his knife with a tad bit more hostility this time but has the sense to not escalate matters. Draco doesn’t mind it; he knows giving Potter something productive to do instead of stewing in thick-headed frustration the entire evening is beneficial for the both of them.

As they move through the forest, the trees get denser, the air wetter. The grass is thicker under their feet, vines stretch and sprawl in between rocks. As shadows elongate and darkness prowls, Draco suspects that at times, they might have even stepped on small carcasses. Potter has finished with his task, leaving spinaberry trees bare and shivering in his wake. He wraps the leaves with a Conjured towel and Vanishes the basket before handing the neat bundle to Draco.

Taken aback by his thoughtfulness, but no less pleased, Draco fails to reign back a smile at Potter, tucking the bundle into his satchel. The latter blinks, straightens, and says, “You don’t smile very often.”

“I do,” Draco doesn’t, “just not at you,” but he likes to tease.

“Who, then? Hermione? Ron? Tonks? _Charlie?_ ”

Draco has spoken to Weasley C. three times in total, each conversation spanning about fifteen seconds.

“The Dragon-tamer? Why not? He has that title for a reason,” Draco fans his face, an action he lets himself do for the sole purpose of making Potter uncomfortable.

Potter clenches his jaw. Merlin, he’s easier to goad than Draco thought.

“Hmm? Jealous?” Draco presses, “Of what, pray tell? His muscles?”

Weasley C. is bulky since he wrestles dragons for a living, the scars crisscrossing his arms and his medium-length ponytail doing wonders to spark a few longing sighs. But Draco can admit to himself that Potter’s facial structure is disturbingly agreeable and that he’s built like a brick house. Draco supposes he should be jealous, but there’s no reason to. What with his refusal to leave the potion lab on most days, Draco only bothers exercising enough to stay alive on the field and make mirrors swoon over his biceps. Plus, seeing Potter’s kilometer-long shoulders in front of him always makes his day for whatever reason. The man is an exceptionally good human shield.

“Or are you cross I set my sight on him first?”

“That’s-” Potter stops. Sniffs.

He lunges off the path.

“Potter!”

Draco starts after him, one hand clenched around his wand and another groping around in his satchel for his headlamp. It takes two seconds longer than normal to put it on, his attention divided. Potter’s silhouette has dropped onto the ground.

“Potter! What the fu-”

Draco’s headlamp turns on, and it shines straight at Potter. Potter looks up, eyes flashing in the light, his hands cupping around something that writhes without rest, jerking his arms around. His fists clench. Then, it is still.

“Malfoy.”

He holds up a rabbit. White, limp, with red blood eyes.

Its body is so tiny compared to Potter’s hands. Draco is struck with how much space Potter takes up, how much his presence engulfs.

How easy can it be for someone who’s never hunted before to-

“Get off the ground,” Draco manages. 

Potter does, patting away the dirt at his pants. He Conjures a small sack from a fallen leaf (no words, no _wand)_ and stuffs the rabbit into it. Yanks a thick vine from the earth and uses it to secures the sack. Ties it at his belt. Raises his head and looks at Draco.

Draco fills his lungs with air, making as little noise as he can. He takes a step back from Potter, who flinches.

“...let’s go. It’s getting dark,” Draco says.

They keep walking.

Draco is thankful for having the… opportunity to put on his headlamp, because true to his words, the forest only gets darker. Branches close in on them, humidity clinging to his very being. If his heart stops thundering in his temple, he might let himself hear the sack thudding against Potter’s thigh.

“What’s the headlamp for?” Potter’s voice sounds hoarse. Draco almost gasps. “You have a wand.”

The hand that Draco has in his satchel closes around said wand.

“Yes,” he says, “but since I have to get a great number of ingredients in dark locales like this,” he hopes his nonchalant wave doesn’t tremble, “it’s infinitely safer and less time-consuming if I have both my hands free to work with.”

“Right,” Potter says, “right.”

“Indeed,” Draco says, looking back at him. Smiles, because Potter remarked he doesn’t do so very often. “I can tell you where to get some if you plan on hunting with your bare hands more regularly in the future.”

Potter nods, slowly. Deliberately. “Right.”

“Right.”

Gramma’s Cabin isn’t very far away. In a while, they’ll get to a shallow stream where they can collect some marsh cinquefoil. After that, it’s another sixteen-minute trek, at least. Draco stops walking and checks his pocket watch.

It shouldn’t be this dark already for another thirty.

“Wait,” he says, forgetting for a moment who is behind him, “get close to me.”

“Malfoy-”

“ _Get._ Close to me. I’m not joking.” 

Draco palms the brooch of his cloak. The intricate pattern of a serpent spiraling around a drop of ruby curves up into a glossy orb as he twists it, emitting a ‘click’. Gripping the silver chain connected from the brooch to the other side of the cloak, he loops it tight around his index and middle fingers, sweeping his arm in a downward arc. The chain lengthens from his still-tied cloak, the orb swinging free. Holding his arm straight in front of him, Draco observes its movement. Now the size of a fist, it dangles from the chain to his midthigh, fluttering back and forth.

The Indicator. When he completed its design a few days ago, he never wanted to use it this soon.

It’s swaying, which is good. It’d be better if it does so faster. 

He swivels his head to the left, the right, his headlamp shining into the thickening trees and the deepening gloom. Nothing. He looks up, noticing what hasn’t been there before. The Full Moon, half-hidden behind wisps of charcoal clouds.

“Malfoy.”

There’s hot breath on the back of his neck.

“Salazar, what is _wrong_ with you!” Draco whirls around, teeth bared. Potter recoils. “You’ve been acting remarkably strange for weeks now. Just what is your preoccupation with making me-”

Draco’s voice dies. He watches the aquamarine glow of the Indicator chase the emerald of Potter’s eyes. It floods the different angles of his face in light - in the silence, Draco sees his chapped lips, the lightning scar that feathers down his right eye onto his cheek, his day-old stubble, the rich brown of skin contrasting bright blue - before decelerating. It stops moving altogether, illuminating his face from below. Draco’s arm quivers.

“Malfoy. Malfoy-”

“No,” Draco says, shivers running up his spine and rattling his skull, “no, Potter, what-”

Potter grabs Draco’s arm that is holding the chain, eyes wide and terrified. “Mal- Draco, what’s going on? What’s this thing?” He continues reaching for Draco as if he is Potter’s lifeline.

“On the Full Moon, no less. Fuck, _fuck,_ I don’t believe it,” Draco mumbles, unable to do anything else but that. He hates how Potter’s palm on his cheek both warms and chills his bones, “I don’t believe it… shit, I don’t even have Wolfsbane, _shit_...”

“Draco, Draco, use your words. What is this thing? Why are you shaking? Draco?”

“I made it,” Draco says, his voice faint.

“What?”

“I made it,” he hisses into Potter’s face, the latter moving back in shock, “I made it to indicate the presence of Dark creatures. If there’s none in my general vicinity, it swings quickly. The closer one is, or- or a few are, the slower it swings. If it stops, then the creature is, hah, incredibly close, and, and,” Draco inhales, he’s overheated, overwrought, “fuck, _fuck_ , what am I even doing out on a Full Moon, what-”

“Full Moon?” Potter furrows his brows and lifts his head. The clouds clear, and the perfectly circular Moon shines her light onto them both. His face empties. He stares at it as if he’s in a trance.

Draco pins his gaze on Potter’s neck.

Potter has never worn anything that reveals beyond his neck. Always a mock neck sweater or an old T-shirt, most likely stemming from some odd low self-esteem issue or a plain want for modesty. Nevertheless, it’s a convenient way to cover scars and bites. Draco doesn’t know what Potter might be hiding underneath, but from the black veins crawling their way from his left shoulder up to his neck and jaw, he has a pretty good idea.

Last month’s Full Moon was Fenrir’s worst attack yet. He and his pack of rabid followers were ordered to venture into Muggle villages and ravage whatever they could get their hands on. Thankfully, the Order had known about this weeks before and worked tirelessly to keep the Muggles safe and unaware in their own homes. However, as the Order has grown in members, Fenrir’s pack has also grown in size, and they did a number on the villages’ infrastructure and resources. It was a difficult few days for the Order to both contain the attack and spin a story that a hurricane had passed by.

Draco held his own, for he knew enough about the pack to pinpoint where their weaknesses were. Casualties were low due to him and his team of Potioneers’s restless brewing and Hermione connecting with the elusive Lavender Brown to design three of the most vicious curses Draco’s seen yet. In spite of that, the Order didn’t return from this battle unscathed. Potter, ever the hero with his savior complex, was in the front lines, facing off Fenrir himself. He later dismissed Healer Yamamoto’s desperate attempts to patch him up, insisting that he can take care of himself, telling her to “stop standing around and do your job, look at how many patients you have.” Tense with anxiety, Healer Yamamoto has lost the words to explain how important it was for Harry Potter to be in tip-top shape. She huffed and left him alone.

Left the curable wound on his shoulder blade alone, until it was no longer curable.

When she complained to Draco about Potter’s behavior, he smirked and said, “Are we even surprised?”

And suddenly he’s the most dumbstruck bastard to ever live.

Draco grimaces in pain. Potter is still staring at the Moon, but his grip has tightened and he’s starting to spasm. Before he starts paying attention to his condition, Draco jerks his arm away from Potter and grabs his wand.

“ _Stupefy_!” He musters up every fiber of strength in his body into the spell. At such close distance, it hits Potter at full force, slamming him back several meters.

Draco runs up to Potter’s fallen form. He searches every pocket, every hidden compartment in Potter’s clothes, putting everything he could find in his satchel, including Potter’s wand and its back-up in the holster at his chest. He then wrenches the man’s thin jacket from his body, Shrinking it before shoving it into his satchel (thank goodness for the Extension charm). Moving down to Potter’s lower body, he does the same thing to his dirty steel toe boots and, hurriedly, his cargo pants, throwing the sack of rabbit to the side. An offering.

A squawk rips from Potter’s throat during the process and Draco shushes him. He leans up to Potter’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, allowing himself a moment to touch Potter’s cheek. He stares at Draco, pupils mere pinpricks, mouth agape. The veins on his forehead strain and sweat dot his skin. Draco slides a hand under Potter’s shirt collar and presses on the heated, swollen outline of the bite, “but you were infected after Fenrir’s attack last month. I have to do this.”

The rise and fall of Potter's chest increase in frequency. Normal people would be unconscious for ages, but he’s Harry Potter after all, and is starting to break out of the Stunner.

Draco should be running away. He must be running away. But his chest aches at the sight.

He removes his hand from under Potter’s shirt, smooths those soft, damp curls from his forehead, then clutches his hand with both of Draco’s.

“Can’t have you tearing through your clothes and destroying your things, can we? Don’t fret, I’ve left you with your pants on, see? ” He hopes his casual tone soothes Potter’s agony somewhat.

Pressing his mouth to Potter’s knuckles, hard, Draco says, “I’m sorry.”

Potter’s nostrils flare.

He points his wand to Potter’s chest and casts _Stupefy_ once more with an _Incarcerous_ in tow. Rope appears out of thin air and coils up his body, binding every centimeter below the neck. Draco loops his satchel across his body, wand and Indicator at the ready, and runs.

The Indicator can lighten or increase in weight at Draco’s will, a fickle little feature that he’s glad Weasley R. reminded him of. Holding the chain with both hands, he swings it in a circle at his side as he sprints, uncaring about its original purpose. 

Darkness. It pulls at his blouse and hangs to his cape as he weaves through the trees. Ducking under the Yewdoe branches, stepping everywhere but the third honey-coloured stone, casting a wandless _Muffliato_ around himself as he rushes near the family of stridien wamps. He knows this forest like the back of his hand. But - as dust particles and ghoulish shadows whistle into his headlamp and spread to the sides of his face, as ordinary sites blur into the void around him, he feels like an outsider in his own home.

Unnerved, Draco flips the cloak’s hood over his hair, the low bun fitting snugly at his nape. The additional layer of barrier did little to calm his nerves, thus he swings the Indicator even harder. Chirps and wails echo around him, but their owners wisely remain at a distance, intimidated by the whirling blue orb and chain. Sweat covers Draco’s palms and onto his wand. He only clutches it more tightly.

With the speed he’s going, with his lithe but athletic frame, there is no chance that the werewolf he’s left on the ground, Stunned and bound, should be able to catch up with him. But he knows, right behind him, the were - _Potter -_ has ripped through his confines, has been ravenous enough to swallow an entire rabbit with ease, and wants more. More what, Draco has asked Remus.

“The first few transformations intensify everything, you see. It takes a while to get used to your emotions getting jumbled up and lit on fire.” Remus has said. “More violence is a common conclusion.” Tapped his bitten-off pinkie finger as proof.

Draco runs and runs and runs. And soon enough, leaves crunch and rodents scurry from a second pair of feet, quickly gaining speed.

There’s a stream up ahead, and Draco’s mouth dries. At his back, snarls accompany the stench of blood. Gramma’s Cabin is only sixteen minutes away, ten if he keeps at this speed. Potter is faster.

A lot can happen during ten minutes. Namely, death.

Not bothering with stepping stones, Draco stomps straight into the freezing water. The barrier between the rest of the forest and the area around Gramma’s Cabin. He catches his breath for a split second and turns around to see canine eyes glowing in the headlamp’s light. Potter’s back is bent at a severe angle, the protruding knobs of his spine outlined through the thin shirt. His ears sharpened and his brows are gone. Choppy bunches of fur cover parts of his body, bristled and mangled with dirt and leaves. His head is lowered but his eyes follow every twitch of Draco’s body, low growls ringing from his thickened throat. Though he’s crouching on the earth, the sheer size of him looms over Draco.

Potter looks positively horrifying.

Draco twirls the Indicator and thrusts it forward, catching Potter off-guard. With his other hand, he throws a powerful Stunner at him. Staggering back, Potter tries to retaliate but to no avail; the spell has hit its mark. Draco has about five seconds to prepare.

He grits his teeth, drawing forth what’s left of his stamina and focus. Not enough strength. Humming bog daisies sway upward from the bottom of the stream and hug his ankles, ecstatic at the presence of a human. Feeling liquid energy coursing up from them into his body, Draco sends a silent apology to the beings guarding this stream.

Just as Potter’s huge, black claws snag on his cloak and tear, Draco does the last thing he is supposed to do. He Disapparates.

He’s not just being sucked into a vacuum. His ears pop, firecrackers explode behind his eyelids, the sensation of being blown up and squeezed at the same time reaches into his throat and chokes him from the inside out. Each millisecond lives for an hour. All he can do is hold onto the image of Gramma’s Cabin and not disintegrate into oblivion.

With a 'pop', Draco appears out of thin air and slams onto the ground. Oxygen burns in his lungs. There’s a reason why Tonks stressed to the Potioneers repeatedly not to test the anti-Apparition wards she’s helped strengthen around Gramma’s cabin. Thank Merlin no one is seeing him right now, heaving and wheezing while dots litter his vision.

He gets back up on his feet, index and middle finger shakily looping the silver chain of the Indicator and flicking his wrist. The orb flies upward and when it lands on his palm, it returns to its state as a brooch. He pins it back on his cloak, peering at the torn corner at the bottom of it. That could’ve been his leg.

Shuddering, Draco drags his feet up the steps to Gramma’s Cabin.

“Phoenix’s tears,” Draco rasps out the password, and the heavy oak door swings open.

Noises of jars clinking and cabinets closing reach his ears. Energy replenished at the familiar figure, Draco jogs to the rows and rows of glass containers, each filled with potion ingredients labeled in lovely cursive. He nods at the grey head of hair at his right.

“Grammedion,” Draco greets as he searches for the crate of pre-made Wolfsbane. He’ll get the specific ingredients in bulk later for the stockroom in Grimmauld’s.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Grammedion says, his deft hands opening heavy bags and filling jars with new, exotic materials.

“Apologies, I can’t stay for long,” Draco says, “It’s the Full Moon, and we’ve got a rogue werewolf on our hands.”

The sound of movement stops. “Oh,” Grammedion says, “The Full Moon? A bit early this month, is it not?”

“Yes,” Draco says, frantic now. He can’t seem to find the crate through his panic, “The seasons are all mixed up, forecasts have never been more wrong, even the lunar cycle is fucked. Muggles blame climate change, I blame Voldemort and his Dark creatures and idiotic rituals. Grammedion, hurry, where’s the Wolfsbane?”

There’s no answer. Draco turns. “Grammedion?”

The man points to a different corner of the room.

“What the hell, why did you switch its spot?”

“Renovation. Some things have to be rearranged, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco dashes over, hands clammy. Its wheels squeak on the wooden floor, and he grabs a handful of vials.

It’s a dark, dusty corner, but his headlamp is still on. Its light catches the colour of the vial for a split second as he rises, and Draco halts, squinting at them. The liquid inside is of a deep shade of violet, but… deeper than usual. Since when does Draco start mixing up colours? His head hasn’t stopped spinning from the Apparition yet, that might be why.

“Grammedion, the colour-”

Pain bursts from the back of his head.

When he regains consciousness, Draco can tell he’s passed out for perhaps a few seconds. But those few seconds are enough for his body to be dragged and set against the cabin’s wall like a sack of flour. He can feel an acute ache where the headlamp has slammed against his forehead from the fall, now turned off. It seems like this is the last straw for his already tired legs; his toes can barely twitch. His vision fades in and out, not registering much else besides Grammedion gathering his wrists and tying them together with twine. 

Strange. Grammedion isn’t the type to bother doing this without a wand.

Draco watches him through half-lidded eyes, body numb, his head still pounding. Perhaps it’s the pain that makes his brain-to-mouth filter disappear.

“Where’s your wand?” Draco asks. He has to commend Grammedion for perfecting the poker face essential for any spy worth their salt, but he’s seen desperation on enough faces that the flicker of it in Grammedion’s expression gives him away.

“Did they take it from you? They found out, huh. Will they break it? What about your back-up?”

The slap hits Draco on his left cheek, veering his face to the right. The strands of blond that escaped his bun fall on the bruise, its sting swollen and hot. 

Draco’s going to assume they took his back-up, too.

“Shut the fuck up,” Grammedion says, the curse word guttural and unfamiliar coming from him. “You don’t know what it feels like to be in this situation.”

“Considering the fiasco that was my 6th Year, I think you might have to revise that thought.”

“No,” Grammedion backs away as if he can’t stand to be near Draco. A part of him breaks. In some ways, he is like the mentor Draco’s never had, his patience and perspective far superior to Severus (bless his cold, dead heart). “You’re redeemed, aren’t you? Favored by the rest of the Order, especially Harry Potter. He argued for you, didn’t he? Nobody ever did for me.”

“Grammedion,” Draco sighs, ignoring the little tidbit about Potter which probably never happened, “you never needed redeeming. You were with us from the start. What changed?”

The man paces and looks out the window instead of answering, the moonlight deepening his eye bags. His normally lush beard has grown unkempt, muscles replaced by tired hollows and bony wrists, the form of his skull emphasized by liver-spotted wizened skin. He’s always seemed so steady, immortal, even, that to see him so worn down is frankly disturbing.

Draco decides to move on. “The Wolfsbane… what happened to them?”

His wrists wriggle back and forth. Despite the fragile nature of the twine Grammedion used, it’s been tied into intricate knots, and nothing Draco’s tried can make them budge.  
  


“I tampered with them,” Grammedion replies, resigned. “Everything here, actually. Admittedly, the Full Moon tonight has hastened my plans. Made it unpredictable, but nothing I can’t fix.”

“Grammedion, you voluntarily did this? Oh, fuck you, honestly,” Draco struggles even harder against the twine.

“They have my kids and wands. It’s either this or gutted children, broken wands, a diet of _Crucio_ and dog shit, and a home in the dungeons. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Contact us for help, goddamn it, you’re a valuable member of the Order!”

“I have a Trace on me,” Grammedion growls. He spots what Draco is doing and kicks his hands. “You can’t take me to Grimmauld’s unless you want Death Eaters at your door. You can’t do shit to help or my children will be fucking dead. And stop fucking trying to escape, it’s no use,” the rosy welts on Draco’s wrists now open and bleed.

It’s not that Grammedion doesn’t have anybody on his side, he just doesn’t see a choice. Draco remembers a sink oozing with bad decisions, red weeping from paper-thin skin, Myrtle’s screams and Severus’s salve, not knowing if he would die from blood loss or the water down his throat. Wonder Boy fleeing, leaving him there. And through the suffocation of betrayal, Draco imagines that in another world, he’d make Grammedion a pot of tea and sit by him through the night.

Draco leans his head back against the wall. “I take it I won’t be getting out of here any time soon,” he might as well make himself comfortable. “Well, what’s your so-called plan, then? Keep me entertained.”

Grammedion glances at him. “I think you’ve gotten the order confused,” he says, “I’m the captor. You’re bound on the floor. You’re the one being interrogated, Mr. Malfoy, that trick won’t work on me.”

Then he shrugs. “But…”

Draco lifts a brow. Grammedion walks to where Draco was standing earlier and plucks his wand off the ground. He tosses it from side to side as if he’s getting used to its weight. Then he returns to his place by the window, tapping Draco’s wand against the glass.

“You’ll be Obliviated, so it doesn’t matter either way.”

_Composure,_ his mother has reminded him before her one-way Portkey to the Continents activated, _will get you everywhere. Even out of Hell._

He resolutely stays quiet, a brow remained raised.

“Fenrir’s attack last month wasn’t accidental.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that.”

Grammedion glances at him once more, and Draco shuts his mouth.

“The Death Eaters caught me long before the attack and tortured me with my children chained up on the opposite wall,” Grammedion’s voice doesn’t hitch, doesn’t change, like he’s used to thinking of the scene. “They wanted to utilize Fenrir more, but his notoriety was chasing new weres away and they started joining the Order. I came up with a plan, and my kids each got a gorgeous room in the Malfoy Manor. Tell me,” he looks at Draco, “does Grimmauld Place have enough space for those weres the Order adopted?”

They both know the answer is no.

“And after this month, you will be out of Wolfsbane to disperse, correct? Tell me, do you think these contaminated vials merely don’t work?”

Draco grows weary at the very sight of the man. 

“They amplify werewolf tendencies during the Full Moon.”

“Intelligence, Mr. Malfoy, is your greatest asset,” Grammedion nods, “but it’s also your biggest downfall. It makes you arrogant, inattentive. If it’s not for your dreaded headlamp, neither you nor your colleagues would ever detect the slight change in colour of those vials until it’s too late. What would the Order think if their prized Potions Master can’t even recognize pure versus contaminated Wolfsbane? Indeed, we were betting on your negligence.”

Divide from the inside. Begrudgingly, Draco is impressed. He’s even more impressed at himself for somehow pissing off enough people and creatures alike to be in the middle of a conspiracy.

“And thus, Fenrir’s attack was a diversion,” that, Draco doesn’t know. “He was there to make it look more grave, but his weres were actually let out to infect people when you were too preoccupied to notice. Muggles would be easier, but they usually bleed to death before actually Turning. Wizardkind, on the other hand, all know about the Light side of the Second Wizarding War. Fenrir’s weres didn’t turn many, but enough to get your hands full, am I right?”

Draco doesn’t say a word. Then he does, trepidation slithering up his guts.

“There will be more of Fenrir’s attacks on the next Full Moons.”

Grammedion smiles a rare, paternal smile that used to make Draco flush with pride.

“You’re getting there. When the next Full Moons come, the unsuspecting weres under your care will consume those contaminated vials. There will be distress calls from various parts of the country, and when the Order members are busy trying to sort out what’s going on and protect the public, Fenrir and his pack will strike. By then you’d discover that the Wolfsbane is contaminated, and of course, you’d hurry to make more,” Grammedion sounds as if he’s checking off a list. “Merlin, what will happen when all the other ingredients in this cabin are spoiled?”

“They will know it’s you.”

“And yet, they won’t,” Grammedion says. “They will blame you first because you are the one Potions Master they trust, the one person whose duty is to gather and inspect high-quality ingredients to serve their purpose. In spite of that, you fail. What would _you_ think, if you were them?”

Draco’s jaw clenches. “What is it about my reputation that you are so keen to destroy?”

“I hate to do this to you, for I have come to value your presence and worldview. But Mr. Malfoy,” Grammedion squats down, elbows on his knees, his face right in front of Draco’s, “it’s not about reputation; it’s about trust. If the head of a team critical to the cause disappoints, who will everyone else turn to? Who can they blame? Who can they trust after that? And by then, your recollection of this discussion would have been wiped, and I’d be long gone.”

There is nothing left to say. Draco stares at his bloody wrists, utterly helpless.

“Grammedion.”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Are you a Death Eater?”

“No,” Grammedion says, “I am a father.”

There’s a moment of silence. Outside the safe house, leaves crunch and wind howls.

“I reckon that about covers it,” Grammedion rises and waves Draco’s wand at the direction of the cart. “Forgive me, I have a few potion vials whose colour I need to correct. Can’t have incidents like today repeating, you understand. Perhaps a bit more lilac essence will do the trick,” his footsteps are loud in the ambiance. “Don’t worry, your turn will come in a minute.”

Draco focuses on his breathing.

In, out. In, out. In, his lungs aflame,

Out.

In,

A howl.

Both men’s heads spin to the window. Grammedion jogs toward it, Draco’s wand in hand.

“What the-” he says and immediately takes a step back, “Is that a werewolf? What the hell is a werewolf doing within the boundaries?”

“Potter,” Draco gasps, leaning up to try and see. About a hundred meters from the cabin, lurking behind the trees and bushes is a hulking shape, hidden in the dark, but Draco can’t mistake the gold in those gleaming eyes.

“Mr. Potter? He’s the werewolf?” Grammedion whirls toward Draco, incredulous. “When did he- how in the world is he able to get here?”

“It’s Harry sodding Potter. If anybody is to defy the odds, it’s him,” Draco murmurs, watching in fascinated horror as Potter gets closer, more and more of his frame catching the moonlight.

Tonks and Grammedion have worked hard on the wards around this cabin. With the stream as the anchor point, one can’t Apparate near the cabin beyond that. Furthermore, one has to walk the whole way here while paths and trails rearrange themselves and converge, designed to puzzle those who don’t know the cabin very well and even drive them to madness. Thus, only Draco and his team know how to weave their way to Gramma’s Cabin.

If a typical human can’t walk three steps from the boundary without getting cross-eyed, a creature with limited intelligence and dwindling sense would never even attempt to cross it, let alone get this close to the cabin.

Draco can't help but feel reluctant admiration leak past tendrils of dread. When he risked his life to Apparate here, he was confident that without a clear scent to chase after, Potter would give up.

And yet, and yet.

A hand yanks Draco’s cloak hood, making his shoulder hit the floor with a harsh thud as he is hauled to the door.

“You bastard, what are you-!”

“While I’m glad that your fearless leader has hastened my plan beyond my comprehension - thanks ever so - I will not die because of him tonight,” Grammedion pants as he opens the door. Gasping, Draco claws Grammedion’s hands enough to draw blood, his legs regaining enough energy to hook behind the entryway.

“For fuck’s sake, boy,” Grammedion fires a hex at Draco’s legs with one hand while he pulls the cloak hood. Freezing static runs up his legs, automatically straightening them and forcing a pained groan out of Draco’s mouth. He lugs Draco’s writhing form to the end of the porch and kicks him down the steps.

Draco tries to protect his head and curl up to alleviate the damage, and it works, but it’s a thorough reminder of just how intensive his future workout routine will need to be. There’s a vague noise of the door shutting and a lock rattling, but louder, much louder than that is the thumps of paws against soil.

What an unflattering way to die. 

Heavy, black claws pinning Draco’s chest to the ground, the wolf presses on top of him, easily covering the entirety of Draco’s body with his massive frame. If there's any remaining doubt that this is Potter, it’s eliminated with the white streak of fur crossing through his right eye, a stark contrast to his black fur. Draco curls his bound hands into fists and swings them upward, punching Potter's jaw from right under. A torn piece of fabric flutters from its mouth onto the ground - has Potter been carrying it with him the whole trip from the stream to Gramma's Cabin? Nevermind that, Draco’s legs scramble and push himself from under the wolf. He barely gets on his feet when Potter snarls and bites his cloak again, causing him to fall on the ground once more. Draco hopes the gods watching are having a grand old time.

Potter hops atop of him, resolutely dodging his kicking legs and flailing arms. He'd take out the Indicator, but it can only be activated when he's standing and able to swing it out, and now he's never getting a chance to fix that feature. That fear pierces him even deeper when Potter catches Draco's hands between his teeth. His big, sharp teeth. Draco freezes, heart threatening to leap out of his mouth.

The wolf closes his jaw a bit, not enough to break the skin, but the pressure is an adequate enough warning. Heat envelops Draco’s hands and condensation burns Draco’s face. Through his blouse, he can feel the tip of Potter’s claws, mere breaths from ripping the linen in pieces. He lets go of Draco's hands and sniffs at his fingers, palms, knuckles. Every cell in Draco’s being forces him to stay as stationary and quiet as possible, keeping his arms raised in the air. He doesn't want to know what happens if he moves.

That wet nose touches the twine around his wrists and after a couple of sniffs, Draco watches in astonishment as the wolf softly bites at the knots. When one breaks free, Potter grunts and hops off Draco's body, sniffing the earth and running up the stairs. He claws on the front door, teeth bared, leaving deep slashes on the wood.

Draco pushes his wrists against the twine until it falls off, stumbling onto his feet and rubbing his wrists in sheer amazement. Even with the obvious displays of savagery, somehow, Potter has taken care not to let his saliva touch the bloody welts on Draco's skin.

Shaking his head, Draco decides to let that go. That’s a headache-inducing confusion for another day. Today, there’s a traitor to take care of.

Draco only just gets on the porch when the wolf barrels headfirst into the front door.

“Oh, you stupid mutt,” Draco says as if werewolves don’t have skulls of steel and can’t very well survive in those Muggle nuclear wars along with the cockroach. “That door is magically reinforced.”

He’s not certain about the windows, but there’s no harm in trying. Pulling out the Indicator, Draco wills it to weigh more and swings, brushing aside the ominous creak his shoulder makes. With a sickening crash, the Indicator plunges a decently sized hole in the glass, spidery cracks spanning a good portion of the window. Panicked hexes are hurled from the inside, and Draco ducks out of the way. Silver eyes meet gold; in an instant, Potter leaps straight through the window.

Littered in the sound of shattering glass are Grammedion’s alarmed shouts. When Draco climbs through the window into the cabin, the older man is cowering behind the large wooden table, shooting feeble hexes that mostly fizzle out and bounce off Potter’s form. The latter crouches on his hind legs, gums exposed, incisors out. The fur on his back bristle and snarls fill the air. Potter snaps his jaw, his barks harsh and deafening with every spell that hits him. Draco creeps behind him, the Indicator’s chain sure in his hand. 

“Your wand is faulty, Mr. Malfoy,” Grammedion says, his voice strained, grappling for control. “It can hardly cast more than two hexes, let alone hold a protective ward. One must wonder how you’re able to get anything done.”

“Weren’t you the one who advised me to brush up on wandlore?”

“What are you saying?”

“Fool,” Draco says. A rumble reverberates throughout the wolf’s body and into the walls. “Unicorn hair core is loyal only to its owner and their purpose,” Draco tilts his head, “what do you think my wand core is made of?”

Pushing off his hind legs, Potter vaults himself over the table without warning. A weak cry ghosts past Grammedion’s lips, as if he’s tired, so very tired, and he is slammed onto the ground. All Draco can hear as he runs to them is the sound of boots thumping the floor, limbs thrashing and fists punching, screams wrenched from wheezing lungs pulsating in Draco’s ears. Drool drips from a gaping, hungry maw. Razor-sharp teeth sink into leather, into cloth, meeting flesh. Red splatters on the floor, on the black fur, on the table legs, on Draco’s cloak, crimson seeping into wool. 

Draco throws his arms around the wolf’s thick neck and tries to heave him off. Grunts gurgling from deep in Potter’s throat, he resolutely refuses to release Grammedion, the old man’s arm clamped between his teeth.

“Alright, that’s enough. Pull yourself together, Potter,” Draco grits, “you could do it then and you can do it now. Let him go.”

Potter seems to be confused as to why he’s being restrained and wrings Grammedion’s arm even harder as an answer. Defeated groans resound from the floor.

“You don’t want to kill someone on your first transformation, or on any transformation at all in the future. I know you,” Draco’s arms are starting to burn. Potter’s relentlessness, surprise surprise, still shines through even in dog form. “You will regret this if you kill him. Potter, Potter, let go. _Harry_.”

Potter struggles and writhes, determined to escape and go on with his man-eating business. Draco tightens his hold, feeling tendons and muscles strain against his arms. Potter growls and barks, jouncing Grammedion’s body as he jerks his head from side to side. Feet glued to the floorboards, Draco stands his ground.

Ultimately, Potter breaks free, legs stretching as he bolts around the table and away from Draco. At least he has the sense to let go of Grammedion first. Before he leaps through the window and disappears into the forest, blood coating his muzzle, he throws Draco one last glance. Then he is gone.

He knows Potter will return, and what the hell, Draco will wait for him.

The arm Potter had in his mouth earlier has limped to the ground, more meat than skin. Between unfurled fingers lies Draco’s wand. It’s bloodied but not mangled, and Draco does quick work at cleaning it at the sink. Then, kneeling by Grammedion’s broken form, he casts as many healing spells as he can remember. Although, the thing about using spells instead of potions and hands-on equipment is that even though they work, they take a while.

“I hope you’re proud,” he says, when he’s sure Grammedion is conscious enough to hear him. “Look at you. Fucked with every single thing in this godforsaken cabin, now I can’t even make a simple anesthetic potion for you. I hope you’re lying there, knowing that you’ll be in pain for roughly the next eight hours, knowing that you did this to yourself.”

Draco casts a third Disinfection charm, then heals his own wrists. Grammedion’s walnut-hued eyes grow watery and unfocused, his chest moving so little that he might as well be dead.

“I hope you’re fucking overjoyed.”

Levitating Grammedion to a corner, Draco sets him down and Conjures a metal cage with bars gridded all around him. One can never be too careful, even if the son of a bitch they’re dealing with is incapacitated. Sighing, Draco squeezes the area where an awful cramp has the gall to flare up and casts a Patronus charm. A silvery Thestral flies into existence, batting its wings and playfully nips Draco’s ear with its skeletal jaw. Draco smiles and asks it to inform Granger of Potter’s transformation and to bring back-up.

“Healer Yamamoto will tell Potioneers Jensen and Reyes what to bring for werewolf-inflicted wounds,” Draco’s Thestral paws the floorboard; his message is getting rather long. “Other than them, bring whomever you deem fit to handle a traitorous spy. Don't ask. You’ll know when you get here.”

His Patronus nods, bones rattling, and dissolves.

He has a vague inkling that it’s going to take a while for help to come. Though the world is pitch black, it has only hit dinner time. Order members are most likely busy with their own work, isolating themselves in individual homes and offices like the workaholics they all are. Draco doesn’t mind staying for the night in this drafty cabin, only he doesn’t remember the last time he wanted to do it while accompanied by an unpredictable werewolf and a passed-out prisoner.

After a careful _Reparo_ at the broken window, Draco trudges to the wall opposite Grammedion’s cage and leans against it. His knees buckle and he slides to the floor, eyes already slipping shut. He draws his cloak around him more tightly, flipping his hood over dirty hair. The open window was letting cold air into the cabin, the chill settling into his pores, and the temperature inside is likely to not rise any time soon. Heating charms are useless, and he has no intention of snapping himself awake every fifteen minutes to reapply it. Exhaustion surges through him, glacial and unsympathetic, pressing on his lashes. Lifting his wand just the slightest bit to cast an Alarm charm on Grammedion so he can be notified when the man sits up, Draco nestles into the cloak, falling into what must be the deepest sleep of his life.

Draco wakes up. Groggy and puffy-eyed, he stretches as much as he can while remaining in his cocoon. He gives a quick scan around his surroundings. Grammedion is motionless, and the Alarm charm isn’t ringing. What woke him up?

There it is, a knock. He turns to the front door. More like a thud, really, like a particular beast is once again barreling into it.

Draco gets on his feet, wincing at the static numbness in his bum and thighs and vowing to bring a sleeping bag everywhere from now on. His throat itches from the hair poking it, his neat bun having spilled out of its elastic some time as he napped. He shuffles to the door and unbolts the two heavy locks above the door handle, opening it to see the inky giant mass that is Potter in his dog form. His tongue lolls out as if he’s a common guard dog and not a murderous bear-sized wolf. His eyes have lost the ferocious heat from earlier, and are wide and hopeful as he pants at Draco. Of course, a good hour or two of venting the savage anger and bloodlust of first transformations in the wilderness probably does that to a werewolf. Making them tired and docile and scurry back to wherever they came from.

“Tch, stupid mutt,” Draco says, but slides the door wider and rubs the wolf’s head as he trots in, his fur warm against Draco’s legs.

The wolf ducks his head and gives the floor a few sniffs as he scuttles to where Draco was napping last. The door all locked, he ambles to the wolf, who’s rhythmically drumming the floorboards with his tail. Draco’s nose wrinkles at the stench.

“Merlin and Morgana, did you find yourself a pigsty and take a bath in there?” He follows the question with a soft Cleaning charm _,_ just enough to remove clumps of brown and the stink of dirt and mud. Potter butts Draco’s hand with his muzzle, the latter now noticing the clear lack of blood crusted on fur.

“Did you clean yourself in the stream?” Draco crouches and massages the wolf’s head. “Hmm? That’s lovely of you, Potter. Dried blood is a bitch to _Scourgify_ out of anything.”

Potter replies by licking Draco’s cheeks and lips, which is most likely as hygienic as eating a serving of pasta off the floor. But after all the shit Potter has gone through in the past few hours, Draco dare says Potter has gained the right to do whatever he wants at this point. Potter prods his cold nose against the underside of Draco’s jaw and pushes his head against Draco’s neck, nuzzling and licking. It’s a bit odd, but Potter hasn’t bitten a chunk off his face yet, thus he doesn’t move. The wolf gets up from its seat on the floor and walks around Draco, moving in a way that his body would brush up against every one of Draco’s sides. His massive figure and unthinkable bodyweight jostle Draco back and forth. Soon enough, a laugh slips out, unable to be restrained, and Draco’s shoulders shake when Potter sets his front paws on Draco’s thighs to rub his face on Draco’s hair too.

This is certainly baffling. Draco wracks his brains, tries to remember what Weasley B. told him months ago about wolf biology. Something about, ah, smells, and, hmm. Scent? Scent. Scent-marking? No, that’s claiming territories. What’s the other one, then? The wolf lays his neck on Draco’s shoulder, somehow maneuvering it to Draco’s other shoulder, an endless round of constant rubbing and- oh, there it is. Scent-rubbing.

It’s a display of affection between packmates, Draco recalls, a way of saying “I like you. I want you to smell like me.” Draco smiles indulgently when Potter almost knocks him on his ass. Why doesn’t Potter act more friendly like this normally? Sure, he doesn’t need to be licked at every turn. But seeing Potter crack up over inside jokes with his friends, casually throw his legs over Weasley R. on the sofa, get enveloped in a hug by Sirius and Remus, et cetera and et cetera... 

Draco smooths a hand over Potter’s neck and gently shifts to sit against the wall. Potter follows suit and drops his head on Draco’s lap, his whole body sprawled on the floor. His keen eyes wander from point to point, eventually drifting back to Draco’s face. Draco lays a hand on his back and marvels at how the sleek fur catches the light at each stroke. He wonders and wonders.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Draco keeps running his hand through the fur. “Why did you let it fester and infect you so? Did you worry you’d burden us, burden me? Do I have to stick by your side at all times to make sure you’re safe?”

Draco’s throat hurts, but there is still a great many things he wants to ask. Why is Potter acting nothing like a werewolf? He never took the seven doses of Wolfsbane the week before he transformed - thus where did his aggression go? If what Draco saw earlier was correct, then how did he brave through a forest meant to confuse everyone and everything with just a torn piece of his coat? How is Draco not dead yet? How is he sitting here with Potter’s head in his lap, vying for his attention instead of ripping his throat out?

“So many questions, Potter,” Draco mumbles, watching Potter’s eyes shutter close and his face burrowing into Draco’s stomach. “When will you answer them for me?”

Draco checks his Alarm charm on Grammedion, and when he looks down, there’s a fully sleeping wolf in his lap. Draco sighs and _Scourgifies_ his hair, which makes it awfully brittle and dry, and he’s going to have to wash it four times when they get back to Grimmauld’s. He braids it in a loose plait and tosses it over his shoulder, mind clouded.

It’s alright. Draco tucks his wand in his satchel, which has miraculously stayed on him through the entire ordeal. He’s okay with not understanding why Potter treats him as nothing more than an acquaintance in human form. He’s okay with the knowledge that Potter is only kind to him during Full Moons.

For now, until the Order members come, he’ll take all he can get from Potter’s affection.

Draco tilts his head against the wall, and rests.

**Author's Note:**

> [check it out on tumblr](https://joonkorre.tumblr.com/post/644102438012518400/hoooooly-shit-this-is-so-late)
> 
> If y’all find some of the ways Harry plays w/ Draco in wolf form weird then I’m sorry to tell you that it’s just how wolves are. They want to lick each other’s teeth as a greeting and they want to do the same to you too if they like you, which is why there’s a video of a lady just snogging every wolf that comes up to her. People who don’t tolerate that just close their mouths as Draco did. So, what about Draco’s presence helps Harry retain his humanity even when he’s transformed? What about Draco’s unanswered questions? Who knows, you tell me ;)


End file.
